Intermediate Frequencies
by OneWhoTurns
Summary: [#Fictober19 Prompt: 14. "I can't come back."] Message after message, Jonas has heard the voice on the radio calling out for someone. {sunken!Alex} {prequel to Channel 18}


_Note: So this is set in the same universe as channel 18 (though this actually takes place before that one, so if you're interested you can always check that out after)._

* * *

The messages started out simple. The first one, anyway. It was weird, to come in the middle of some rock ballad from the 80s, but he chocked it up to crossed wires and weird interference (which, well, seemed technically accurate). Skid Row was whaling away a guitar solo, and then—

"_Hello out there? This is, um… Cave FM! 'No. 1 for Cave, Grotto, and Subterranean Country.' _"

It was a girl's voice. Not the well-practiced veteran voice of the station DJ, but someone crackling in like some kind of prank broadcast. Gone and done in a few seconds, and back to the music. Jonas glanced at his car radio for a second, skeptically, but shrugged it off.

.

The second message wasn't exactly terrifying, either. In fact, he wasn't even sure he'd heard it at all, half asleep as he was. Same station, Bryan Adams singing on about whatever younger years blah blah— It was 7:05. Jonas wasn't really paying close attention. But, again, mid-song;

_…and the bad. Yeah I'll be stand-  
_"_Um… A-Alex? Can you… can you hear me? _"

It cut back to instrumental. But this time it didn't seem like just a prank call. She didn't sound… It wasn't necessarily _panic_, but it was nervous. At least, he thought it was. But again; over and passed so quickly.

.

The third message was the first one to come from nowhere. His car radio was turned all the way down, between stations after stopping mid-tune when the light had turned green. It was just on static. Until there was a voice.

"_Uh, testing, testing… this is a test of the Beach Cave Emergency System? _"

The voice had a kind of nervous laughter to it, like someone put on the spot, covering up anxiety with humor. It was the same girl.

.

The fourth…

The fourth message was when they started to ring bells.

"_Hey, i-if you're out there, uh, Alex? We… We got stranded on Edwards Island… and-_"

Edwards Island. That… that was a thing. He'd been there, he'd been stuck there, he'd been terrorized there and only escaped thanks to— to something. Something involving Ren's friends. He didn't fully remember the night. But the name was enough to put him on alert.

She was asking for the same person, again. Someone named Alex. Maybe a friend, or a boyfriend, or a brother or something. Maybe a parent or a guardian. Someone who could help.

But the messages had come days apart. And there was no reason she'd be stuck there. The message came at 3pm on a Sunday, from the little radio built in to the kitchen of their new place in Camena. Ferries ran on the Island— well, he didn't know for sure, but when he'd gone with Ren they'd run at least til five. No reason to be stranded.

.

The fifth message sent chills down his spine.

"_Hey, Ren? Nona? Can you guys hear me? It's Alex, in case you can't recognize my—_"

She always got cut off mid-message. Like someone terminated the broadcast before she was finished.

But that… those were his friends' names. Those were_—_ those were people who went to the island with him. And her…

Her name was Alex. Which meant all those messages before, they weren't calling out for help from someone else. They were calling for help from _herself. _

.

His theory was confirmed while driving around Camena at 11pm on a Wednesday night in early July. He'd just leave his radio on and tuned to static sometimes, wondering what might pop up. Generally it would just be brief staticky half-seconds of advertising jingles or droning AM radio newscasters.

"_Alex? This is… you, okay? Just… don't go into the cave. Whatever you do, don't go into the cave._"

It was the first message that felt… complete. Like she'd gotten out what she needed to say. And it… it made sense. Things started to add up - or _kind of _add up, with a hell of a lot of blurry bits in between.

The island had been… something. He didn't remember a lot of that something. But the cave felt familiar. He didn't go in, but Michael did. Michael went, and he brought a radio. Radios, like this Alex person was using.

Jonas wanted to know more. It felt like a bad idea, but he felt like he _needed _to know.

.

"_Alex, this is… uh, Alex, and— listen, __don't_ _come to Edwards Island. Whatever you do, just- don't come here. Stay home. Stay… safe._"

He lay under his covers, staring at his alarm clock. He'd started to leave it running quietly in the background whenever he was sitting around. Any radio, really. It was maybe a little weird, but his dad was usually at work, and when he was home he didn't comment on it. And it was summer, so there wasn't a ton to do all day, aside from let Ren drag him around the area. They'd gone to the lake earlier that day.

Jonas's brow furrowed, rolling over to examine the station. The noise switched back to music. He'd taken to changing stations regularly. It didn't seem to matter what the frequency was; she'd be there.

.

"_Hey! Uh, Jonas? _"

He sat bolt upright in bed, heart suddenly hammering in his chest. It was 2am. He'd been fucking around on his computer and-

"_Or- or just to anyone listening, we're trapped in—_"

It cut out, again. He just stared at the radio on his bedside table for a long moment. "Alex…" The name felt odd in his mouth. Like it didn't quite fit, or was the wrong shape. Which was weird, cause it was common enough. But somehow it felt foreign.

His name. She'd said _his _name. She'd called out to Ren, to Nona, to herself, and now to _him. _

Feeling like a bit of an idiot, he awkwardly picked up his little alarm radio. "Um… Alex?" This was stupid. He was talking to a $5 piece of plastic that didn't even have a microphone. It couldn't even transmit.

But he knew what could.

.

Panting, red-faced and pumped full of adrenaline, Jonas shifts his truck into gear, reaching for his prize. State-issued radio communications equipment from the forest service. Stolen. Basically: one hardcore walkie-talkie. His eyes are a little too bright, too frantic, clicking on the power switch and starting to press buttons, scanning through the channels like he might find-

"Fuck-"

There's feedback, and it's _loud_. He hurriedly flips off the walkie. That doesn't even make sense. How could there be-

"_Jesus-_"

Fucking fuck, Jonas nearly swerved into the next lane over. Thank god the road is empty. 4am is pretty much always dead around here. He hurriedly pulls over.

"Who— is that— are you-"

"_Is… Is someone there? _"

"Yes!" Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, this is— this is real time. "Are— are you Alex?"

"_Is… If you're there…_" There's a pause, and the voice drops quieter. "_Oh my god, this is… fuck, you're being stupid,_" the voice on the radio mutters, like she's trying to talk herself back to her senses.

"Alex, right? It's-" He feels like an absolute idiot. "It's Jonas. You-" He's talking to his radio. His fucking _car radio. _Like that could ever work in a million years. His enthusiasm stalls. "…You probably can't even hear me," he mutters flatly, sighing. Stupid idea. Stupid plan.

But that wasn't the plan, the plan was-

Jonas fumbles for the walkie again, flicking the switch and the feedback comes on before he flips it off again-

"_Motherfucker, how is that-_"

His heart is in his throat. That can't be a coincidence. Not twice in a row. Fuck, is he dreaming?

Jonas turns off the car. The radio dies. He turns back on the walkie-talkie, this time with no wailing whining scream of feedback. He holds down the transmit button for a second, trying to find the words. But… No, there really isn't anything to say. Just… "Alex?"

There's a chirp of a finished message as he lets go of the button. Then silence. He's reaching for the radio dial, thinking maybe that's the only way to hear a response, when the walkie crackles to life.

"_…Who is this? _" She sounds wary. Not exactly _cold, _but firm. Like she's expecting it to be some kind of prank. Which is— can she even _be _pranked? Who is she? _What _is she?

He holds down the button. "It's… uh. You- um, you called me. I think. Maybe from the island." He feels like a dumbass. But also like maybe this is just some kid fucking around on a HAM radio, and his name was just common enough to be picked. Ren and Nona… not so much. But Jonas? It's not unheard of.

There's a half chirp of a ping, and Jonas pings back. He's not sure what else to do.

For a long moment, there's just silence.

He clicks open the channel again; "Are you still there?"

Another second of silence, and then— "_Jonas? _"

Jesus Christ. Her voice is different than before. There's plenty of standard radio distortion, but she still sounds pained. Like she's choking on his name. He lets out a long breath. "…Yeah."

"_Oh my God._" Her voice is hushed.

"Who— who are you? How do you know my name?" His head is swimming, because this feels _unreal. _

"_You-_" The transmission cuts out. And it doesn't come back.

"Alex?"

"_You don't remember._" It sounds breathless. Like she's been punched in the gut.

"…Should I? Do I— have we met or something?" He doesn't remember any girls named Alex. Or anyone with her voice - and he's been hearing her voice a lot lately.

"_…No. No, we-_" It cuts off again, and Jonas starts to think that's actually intentional on her part. When her voice comes back, it's quiet and sounds choked and thin. "_No. We've never met. I don't—_"

He lets the radio silence go on, expecting her to come back any second. She doesn't. Finally, Jonas risks a ping. There's a ping back. So she's still there.

"Alex?"

"_-I can't come back,_" she blurts, and it's cut off quick, but he thinks he hears a bit of a splutter, a cough maybe, or a sob.

"What do you mean?"

Silence. It goes on. He gives her time to formulate her thoughts. He pings.

There's no response.

"…Alex, are you there?"

Nothing.

He waits for a long time. Five minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. A half hour has passed, and none of his pings have been returned. Finally, Jonas sighs.

Keys turn in the ignition, the truck roaring to life, and he stabs at the radio's power button just as the feedback starts again. But nothing over the walkie. No exclamation. No ping. He shifts the car into gear, and checks the walkie one last time, just to remember the station; channel 18.


End file.
